#very specific fanfiction

[pinescent-and-gingerbread]

✧ Fantasies in the dark

✦ Pairing: Arthur Morgan x Female!Reader ✦ Summary: In which Arthur catches a glimpse of your intimacy, the vision driving him into madness until he finally decides to give in to his urges. ✦ Warnings: SMUT 18+, MDNI! Masturbation, nudity, voyeurism (reader not aware he's staring), self-depreciation, and lots of shame from this poor man. Arthur's pov. ✦ Words: 2,7k Arthur's pic is mine, others are from Pinterest. And as always, as English isn't my first language, prepare for some possible misspellings. Read on AO3

Lately, Arthur had a problem. An incessant, disturbing, haunting problem.

He couldn’t sleep at night.

This could have been related to the gang’s precarious situation, being hunted down by the Pinkertons and surrounded by enemy gangs, O’Driscolls and Lemoyne raiders everywhere. Or even because of some older wounds, the loss of Eliza and Isaac amongst others, reminded almost every day by the complicated family portrait John painted with Abigail and Jack. Or the hurtful thought of the life he never had with Mary that was always following him since he had seen her again near Valentine. Life doomed from the start by his inherent violence and the mountain of corpses he was responsible for.

Arthur had plenty of reasons not to sleep at night. But this wasn’t because of any of that.

He couldn’t sleep because of you. 

Not that it was your fault. In fact, you didn’t even know about any of that and Lord have mercy, he was praying that you’ll never find out; because he would never be able to look at you in the eyes then.

A few weeks ago, the gang had settled at Clemen’s Point. A rather pretty spot just near the lake, and not so far from town. But it wasn’t exactly the place that was causing him trouble. It was the unexpected view he was having from his tent.

For some unknown, mystical reasons, Miss Grimshaw while deciding the camp’s ajancement had decided to place your tent right next to his. Not so big of a problem at first sight, right?

Except that you were a night owl combined with the suffocating warmth of the place. Making you get to bed naked.

Oh, Arthur knew you do, because every night, every single one, you let a candle lit to read, or write, or God knows what before sleeping. The light casts your shadow against the tent’s canvas. The shadow of your very much nude body.

The first night Arthur had noticed, he had come back exhausted from a job in the middle of the night and laid on his cot without even taking the time to remove his boots or hat. A very usual and typical slice of his life, which lately felt more and more like a terribly used one. As if all these slices were repeating again and again. An accumulation of jobs and missions and robberies and fights; deceiving, lying, stealing, killing. Over and over again, going round and round. At night, he was reduced to a slumbered mind in a spent body, that was definitely becoming old and rusty. Already half asleep, mud and twigs surrounding his tired limbs, his thoughts all tangled up like a ball of wool, he had turned his head to his left, reaching from instinct for his pack of cigarettes on the little table next to his bed. Another slice of bad habits from a bad life.

That’s how his eyes had met with this quite erotic shape displayed on your tent.

Said eyes had grown so big that it had fully woken him up all of a sudden, as quickly as if someone had dumped a bucket of iced water on his shocked face. After half of a second of pure stabbing surprise and incomprehension with his hand hanged in the air, his breath stuck in his throat as if really being punched in the gut, he instantly turned his eyes back to the ceiling of his own tent. Cheeks burning red, heart pounding, as if someone had caught him in the act of doing a terribly shameful thing. Exactly as if he had really seen you naked.

He had feverishly grabbed the cigarette pack without looking at it, gaze refusing to turn again, these two blue diamonds locked on the ceiling of his tent, and had messily pulled one out of it, his shaky fingers fumbling, almost spilling everything on the ground.

He must have looked so damn ridiculous.

The smoke helped him to calm down, its soothing and comforting feeling spreading and burning through his lungs. He had fallen asleep, turned to the other side facing the wagon, trying not to think too much about the peek of your intimacy he had witnessed, telling himself it probably was going to be an isolated incident. 

But of course, of course the Lord had to torment him even in the rare moments of peace he could have enjoyed.

Turns out this was apparently a habit of yours. 

To be honest, he probably deserved to be tormented. But this was years from what he had in mind when it came to the Lord's punishment for his life of crimes.

And Arthur, even though a hardened man in many ways, able to lock lips during torture, kill men with bare hands, and stay emotionally strong in any kind of situation, was still only, after all, a man. A man with needs.

Filthy, disgusting needs.

He had tried to resist. Had tried not to let his eyes slip in your direction like that first night. Sometimes he would allow himself a quick glance, just to check if you were wearing any clothes for once, like a normal person. And maybe the night after would be different? Every evening spent at camp, his pupils would end up brushing the sinful silhouette in just a soft, slight sight, as if not to scare you, as if not to feel too bad about it.

But it was getting harder and harder not to stare. The easy lies about just checking on you or looking at anything else in the same area as your tent to have the chance of winning a glimpse of you would soon not be enough.

Just the mere fact that he knew you were completely bare, only a few meters away from him, singly the thin and superficial fabric of the tent between the both of you, was getting him hard and sweaty, and making his blood boil as a virgin teenage boy would. He could almost physically feel it, like a burning presence in his back when he was sleeping head against the wagon's wall.

The Human mind may be well designed for a lot of things; it forgets an event too hard to carry or can trick you into thinking you're not experiencing any physical pain in extreme situations. But Arthur had learned that it was extremely poorly made when it came to ignoring something. The more he was trying to not think about his unholy urges, the more he ended up being plagued with them. As sure as the seasons always turned in circles, you would come back to his effusive psyche.

And Oh, he was ashamed. Ashamed and revolted by himself. This was absolutely not in his habits, all the contrary. Yes, he was an old miserable bastard who had killed and plundered. But for God's sake, he had never acted obscene towards a lady before.

But the shame wasn't enough for him to stop. On the nights when the guilt was at its lowest —when the tediousness of his days was nibbling at his patience, he had let his eyes wander to your sinful figure, telling himself that maybe if he did, he could just go on with his night and finally rest. Just a quick taste, not too long.

But it only made things worse. It made him dream of you. 

Dream of you stripped, his imagination taking the lead of what the tent’s fabric was preventing him from seeing. Dream of you moaning, taking him so tightly, welcoming him in your warm body and into your arms. Dream of the feeling of your skin under his fingertips, of the sight of your naked body squirming with pleasure. He would now often wake up frustrated and angry, if he had succeeded in sleeping at all, his member hard and throbbing on its own, his heart beating powerfully in his chest as if it had been real. His pants and blanket had even been damped one or two times. 

What was he, a fifteen-year-old boy again? He was so angry and mortified by the physical obsession his body was having with you that he was constantly in a foul and fiery mood;  bitter with everyone, his tension leaking into every movement and every word he spoke. He started missing targets when shooting, getting even more reckless and hot-headed during jobs, jobs often ending up missed or taken care of negligently, yelling at people when they weren’t fast enough, or clever enough, or silent enough, breaking things, breaking rules. The lack of sleep was making his deadly efficiency fade away, replaced by sloppy and messy gestures, stopping enemies from falling dead at his feet like his lethal skills always did, castrating the only thing that was left of his masculinity.

And yet, he couldn’t stop watching you from afar during the time he was at camp, telling himself he knew, or at least had an idea, of what you looked like without these clothes on; feeling a twisted sensation of pride imagining he was the only one who did. On top of that, your sweet personality and beautiful face weren’t helping him at all with his addiction. Filthy old bastard, stop it- he had to mentally slap himself to prevent staring at you for too long, especially staring at your chest that this goddamn dress you had chosen to wear wasn’t covering at all; or your ass these goddamn pants were fitting way too well.

Tonight, Arthur is avoiding going to bed too early. He knows he would just lay in it waiting for you anyway. Instead, he goes for a walk along Flat Iron Lake’s shores, bringing his journal with him. Two entire pages are already dedicated to your shadow. He had no idea a picture exclusively made of black and white flats on a sheet could have such a powerful erotic effect. Or maybe he is a complete degenerate —which, he is sure, is more and more true.

He has to be honest with himself, he could just go to a hotel, or out of camp for a few days to sleep under the stars, and the matter would be settled.

But he doesn’t want to. Because deep down inside, his urges are winning, making him feel like the most foolish and weakest man alive. He enjoys watching you. He enjoys seeing those forbidden plumped curves cast on this canvas. He feels like you're not leaving him any mercy, pitiless, his days dictated by the wait for his taboo rendez-vous, his nights by your sensual apparitions in his dreams.

He is trapped, you have completely tamed him, and irony of it all, have absolutely no idea you are making him feel like this.

This woman is drivin' me insane.

After a few hours on the cold shore's sand, his fingers only capable of creating quick little sketches and scribbles, his feet lead him back to camp. What a surprise. He finds most of the gang's members already asleep, apart from the ones on guard duty and some late campfire enjoyers talking about life, about love, grief, the future, the past. He briefly nods at them without a word and walks to his private space. He already knows what’s waiting for him there, your tent looking like it’s still illuminated, his thoughts and body avid for it.

No, don’t be a fool, Morgan.

He sits down on his cot. Mumbles to himself orders and curses to try and stay reasonable. Takes off his hat, runs a hand through his hair, sticky with sweat and dirt from his busy day, as all the other ones, as always. Scratches his beard and his ears with a sniff, tells himself he needs to take a swim into that lake. That he’s as dirty on the inside as he’s on the outside. Pulls down his suspenders before stretching his shoulders, a pained groan escaping him. A cigarette joins his lips, a match lights it, and he breathes in slowly. He tries to calm down, focusing once again on this homey feeling it brings him. 

But his brows furrows. His lips tighten. He knows he won’t be able to hold on much longer. He needs to sleep properly. Even being the all-mighty Titan he is, he still needs a good night of sleep from time to time to keep the engine of his body turning, and you have kept it from him for days.

He lies to himself promising this is only for his health.

That this is the only way for him to stay focused during the day; the only way to rest properly and be at his best again tomorrow.

That this will be the only time he’ll do that.

His only moment of weakness. 

The still-lit cigarette and his good conscience fall to the ground as he lies on his cot, settled on his left side, his right hand already roaming on his lower belly. 

His eyes drop on the scene he had fantasized about for what seems like years to him at this point.

Lord have mercy…

Your shadow looks so perfect. He takes his sweet time to notice every detail of it, enjoying to the maximum his sinful behavior, now that he had succumbed to it. How you’re laying on your back, reading your book with your legs crossed. The curvaceous shape of your body looks divine to his insatiable gaze. Your hair messily tangled around your head. The silhouette of your chin and throat making him hungrier than any feast he could have attended. Your belly, rising and falling with your chest and breasts, gives the shadow an organic appearance. Your delicate legs, from the base of your thighs to your calves, to your feet, your toes mindlessly curling as you get lost in your story. And of course, the blurry outline of what was between them…

Damn it.

His hand quickly reaches his belt, unbuckles it,  fiddles with his pants, opens them carelessly in an urgent grip. He spits in his palm, lashes out at himself when the desire of it being your wetness instead crosses his mind, and slips it between the buttons of his union suit. It finally wraps around his desperate shaft, gorged with blood, and he wonders if he already had been this hard before.

The moment he feels the pressure of his own fingers around it, he can’t help but sigh deeply through his nose, and has to physically block the groan he was about to let out.

Make no noise, moron.

He bites his lips to stop any other immoral sound from crossing through his mouth. Last thing he needs right now is to get caught. He slowly rubs one languorous time from up to down, then up again, his fingers brushing his swollen head right where he needs to. He instantly knows he won’t last. He had dreamed about this, about you, both during days and nights. His eyes are locked on your tantalizing silhouette, this deiform delicious flesh. Goddess of the night, Queen of his desires.

His hand rubs once again and his muscles tighten. He starts to stroke in a rhythmic pace, his moves are efficient, messy, careless. He masturbates the same way he takes care of himself —quickly, roughly, as if matching his disgust towards his own self. The exact opposite of what he would do to you if he could. This is pure physical relief.

Yes, God, yes…

Your name turns in his mind between blasphemous curses as he pleasures himself, stroking faster and faster, delightful warm sensations spreading through him. Finally. The burning is no longer in his back or mind; it's right there around his erection, flames licking all around it.

He wants to be able to join you there, so badly. He wants to discover the tone of your bare skin in those places you never show to anyone. He wants to whisper sweet things in your ear and you to sigh back, your voice high and softly shaking from pleasure. He wants the lewd intimacy, the shared tension and the electric, exciting touch of two foreign skins discovering each other for the first time. He wants to see your hardening nipples he can only have a glimpse of through the fabric. 

He wants to have you, to take you, consume you, all to himself. He wants you to think about him the same way he is now, wants you to come while thinking of him, only him, your mouth to moan, whimper, scream even, all thanks to him. 

He wants your hand instead of his, around his cock right now, pressing harder, moving faster.

Yes, yes, jus’ a bit more darlin’… -

A movement from you, a real one, makes his pace slow down and his heart stops, afraid you might have by some sort of divine knowledge understood what was happening. But you’re just shifting in your bed, positioning yourself on your belly with your book open against your pillow, and Arthur’s balls spasm; he now has the most perfect view of your ass, its gorgeous, decadent round and plumped contour making his member twitch in his fist.

Ahh, shit… So god damn perfect… 

Pearls of sweat leak from his forehead to his neck. His ears shut close to the outside world, his surroundings completely disappearing. Now, there’s only you and your perfect back beautifully arched ending with your perfect bottom and him, and no one else’s on Earth. His breath is jerky, his entire face completely crimson, his fingers pumping so hard and fast he’s basically fucking his hand —your hand, with those wet and unmistakable noises filling the air.

His breath speeds up as Arthur feels his deliverance coming, blood rushing in his veins. He sees himself behind you grabbing fistfuls of your cheeks, he sees his erection diving deep between them. And it's the last straw. His brows are crunched in an exquisite expression of pure sexual delight, jaws so tensed he’s about to break his teeth, your pleasure-filled voice screaming his name in his head, dragging every sensation out of him. His orgasm hit him with the strength and speed of a thunderstorm, lightning bolts of satisfaction striking every fiber of his body.

 Yes! Yesss  —Damnit! 

He comes hard with a low and throaty growl he forgot to —or couldn't repress, silently repeating your name again and again, his lower lip almost cut open from how hard he had bit himself, an enormous vein on his forehead where sweat covers his skin. His thick, hot cum spills messily in an indecently large amount, the aftermath of having held himself back for so long, leaking on his pants and fingers and staining his cot; a dash of white contrasting with the darkness of what he just did.

He’s praying to the Lord and the Devil, any mystical forces known to man, that nobody had heard his final relief sound, especially not you. It was louder than what he would like to admit.

Shit, so damn good…

Using his black bandana, he roughly cleans himself then tosses it somewhere on the floor, his cock finally softening as he shoves it back under his clothes, balls empty. And it feels good. So good a wave of shame and guilt crashes onto him once more. What a pig he was for jerking off while ogling you. What an old bastard he was to mingle you and his filth. But at the same time, he feels like his muscles are thanking him, his restless flesh satisfied, even though he almost hurt himself with how fast he had stroked, lost in his haze.

His bittersweet and contradictory feelings accompanied him as he took a last glance at your tent before drifting off to sleep, his breathing still a bit raspy as if he had run for hours. You had closed your book and taken the candle between your hands to blow on it, the little flame flickering before fading. And then, darkness.

The curtains falling on the stage at the end of this private decadent act.

Eyelids heavy, Arthur knows he will finally sleep tonight.

But he also knows this isn’t the end of his torments at all; the conflicting thoughts paint his mind just as the sun pierces through the dark ebony clouds of a thunderstorm, creating those abruptly dazing shapes and color, pitch black laced with blinding light.

Never in this life or the Other he will forget the form of your naked body, no matter how wicked he feels. Because when it comes to you and only you, Arthur Morgan is, indeed, a very weak man.

tagging : @a-court-of-valkyries and @zae-heeyyy

[courfee]

it's been exactly a year since the last chapter of Operation Walburga's Arbitrary No Kissing Ever Rule and I still miss it. This scene is probably one of my favourite things I've ever written and I've wanted to draw it for forever, so now seemed like an appropriate time

[jazzmasternot]

Born to read smut forced to wait tables 😭😭

[valewritessss]

Can someone give me well written fluffy Percabeth fics I feel like I’ve read the majority of them already and I don’t want to open another tab to add on to the 107 tabs I have.

Edit: THANK YOU SO MUCH TO THOSE WHO GAVE ME RECS PEOPLE NEVER ACTUALLY ANSWER

[onceandfuturelesbian]

short n sweet fic rec list

merthur fics where merlin defends arthur while everyone is being a dick to him because they think they’re protecting merlin

- it’s alright (as long as i have you) by heartsocold

- i hate you (i love you) by heartsocold

- i will stand by you (even if i’m the only one) by buch_in_der_hand

[itsnobodysproblem]

So like

What very specific ao3 tag do you go absolutely balls to the walls crazy for?

Like i don't mean fluff or hurt/comfort or even stuff like sharing a bed. I mean something that might be in less than 1% of the fics you're interested in. Something that might elicit the response "wait, that's a tag? I mean i guess but-" from your friends, or at least create general confusion and/ or concern.

I'll go first

Mine's hypothermia

Absolutely insane for that shit. I check ao3 for new hypothermia fics in my favourite fandoms like every 2 or 3 months. I... Ok It's cuddling to save a life, what's not to like? It's a way of having your characters in danger of death but have them be basically fine the next day.

(I mean yea I'm aware that irl moderate to severe hypothermia can have lasting effects but-)

And I mean unless it's real bad and they lose some fingers it's pretty chill on the physical consequences (ha, chill!) so that's a plus

Also did i mention CUDDLING TO SAVE LIVES?? MAN THATS INSANE

The contrast between the frozen one being like "actually I've stopped shivering so ig I'm doing better. I'm even warm" and the rescuer knowing those are you're-at-death's-doorstep symptoms??? DISGUSTING I LOVE IT

GAH!! Just-

Yea man, I'm so normal about this

[pendwelling]

TWSB Hogwarts AU!

Inspired by my AU fic on ao3!

[sagaubeloved]

I don’t know if this is something I READ or something I thought of in passing and just kept forgetting about, but the basic idea is that the things the Creator comes into contact with (mainly literature) is recreated within Teyvat.

But it was more in the sense that even if the Creator hadn’t read the book it would still appear. However, those books that weren’t read would be faded, barely there scribbles that are not discernible and thus not as important to the Creator in comparison to the things they have read.

In that way, I thought how funny it would be that if-and-due to the Creator being a college student there are all these various poems, post-colonial literature, plays, biology, communications, etc just popping into existence and the people of Teyvat believing that the Creator really enjoyed knowledge and the arts.

(Maybe that can cause a long standing argument between Sumeru scholars and those who prefer the arts?)

Would this include the things the Creator writes? Essays and such? Yes, because it is something the Creator interacted with, and no less created themselves!

For me I really like essays, but it also depends on what it is the essay is going to be about, that’s where it can turn from an essay of 10 pages easily or a trudging essay with blurbs. (Just imagine seeing your school essay glorified somewhere as fact and your just there trying not react because you wrote that one thing while sick, and high as a kite at 3 am on a school night; wtf is it doing in that glass casing for all of Teyvat to witness??)

Similarly, if the Creator enjoys reading in general, all those things come into existence even if those things existed by way of technology only, ie. Fanfiction.

So imagine when the Creator descends they are at first confused and then upset because I still have so many things to read! I still have so many things to write! I had a project due in a week! And then stops in bewilderment because —

Wait, isn’t that… isn’t that the novel they had in their To Read list?? Wait isn’t that a story they already read?! Oh no, everyone is witness to your reading habits!!

[shinelikethunder]

it'd be interesting to see a version of that Beloathed Fanfic Terminology poll that skips all the general clumsy-writing foibles and focuses on shibboleths specific to fic culture (esp LJ/AO3 "house style"). blown pupils. toeing off shoes. italicized "oh." huffing a laugh. "fisted" as a synonym for "grabbed," often in contexts where The Author Should Damn Well Know That Raises Awkward Disambiguation Issues. entire clusters of statistically-improbable dialogue tags that i can't think up examples of offhand, but would absolutely clock if i saw them in the wild. scent X, scent Y, and something uniquely him. fill in your own; i'm sure there are tons more.

some of them i find kinda charming, and most of the ones above don't really bother me except that they sometimes ring a bit cliché, and/or are so jarringly fanfic-specific that they can interfere with a narrative voice that's less so. but my stupid-ass hill to die on is that "blown pupils" drives me NUTS. I Have Never Fucking Noticed Someone's Eyes Doing That, let alone doing that from being turned on. let alone so dramatically as to be understood shorthand for "turned on," rather than "concussed" or "on the way back from the ophthalmologist's office" or "on So Many Drugs" or "having a fucking stroke." and if i - with an existing pet peeve about this phrase in fanfic - have never taken time out of a makeout session to note the relative pupil dilation of the person i'm sucking face with, i guaran-fuckin'-tee you that Emotional Constipation McManlyMan from your slash fics would not fucking say that even in internal narration, and definitely would not have that exact wording on hand as a stock turn of phrase. come the fuck on.

[specific-dreamer]

the people have spoken and i shall be writing the pic where pony and johnny never went to dally

BUT i can’t decide if it should be in darry’s pov or pony’s so i’m gonna write the start to both under the break and then you guys pick

for the people who asked to be let aware here are your tags, it's not done but here's a progress report i suppose: @theleopardstalker, @darry-queen, @skaryskeletons, @too-damn-good-for-growing-old, @dancertori24, and @johnnyburntcake

(save for when you have time because it is v important to me that you know i’ve only written the introduction, the thesis if you will, and pony section is 642 words and darry’s is 375 words. and im not even done i simply forced myself to stop there)

darry’s

darrel shaynne curtis is not a rough person. full send. well, okay, he was rough during football, but you can’t play ball and not be rough. especially not when you’re captain. then again he also loved ganging up on sodapop with ponyboy when they was younger, and well let’s just say darry always ended up bribing soda not to snitch to their mama at the end.

okay fine, maybe darry was a rough person. maybe it was that part of him that hit pony tonight. it was that part of him that scared his baby brother so bad the poor kid ran away. from him. darry was never going to forgive himself.

“darrel?”

he was never one for dramatics but he had half a mind to cut his hands off, just to make sure he never messed up like this again. he’s not too sure how’s he’d cut his left hand off after cutting his dominant hand, but that was a problem for later. then again, who’s gonna pay the bills if he has no hands to get work done.

“darrel?”

right. scratch that idea. it wouldn’t be fair on soda anyways, leaving him with the responsibilities of paying bills and keeping everyone together because darry was too fucked up to be useful.

his eye starts to twitch and his leg starts shaking. something that usually only happens when darry is real scared. it goes without saying it hasn’t done it since his mama and daddy died.

glory, he really fucked up didnt he? what if ponyboy doesn’t come back home? soda would hate darry for that. or what if pony doesn’t want to come back unless darry was gone? soda might not like it for a day or two, but his littles had always been closer with each other than they ever were with him so he might not mind so much.

darry’s not much for dramatics, he preferred to leave that to pony, but if it came down to it, darry would leave just as fast as their parents died. (…too soon?)

“darrel!”

darry jerks so hard he can taste that metallic twang that blood has. he bit his tongue and somehow, the hurt that came with it quieted his mind a little.

pony’s pov

when ponyboy wakes up, his first thought is that sodapop had to stop throwing him in the lake. no matter how many times soda threw him, pony would never learn how to swim like that.

he sits up to say just that to soda when his eyes sees someone laying on the grass. okay… he's never been at the lake without his parents before. and it’s dark outside which is really weird; his mama never lets him outside past the street lights, the last time he was out late his mama was in a worry and his dad was so mad he was honestly a little worried he was going to get the breaks beat off him if darry hadn't stepped in and took the blame.

staring at the person, pony rubs his eyes. that doesn’t matter, right now he needs to figure out which one of his dumb brothers were laying in the grass before they got a crook in their neck or before they dad came looking for them. he’s not sure what’s worse; on the one hand, whichever brother it is would surely complain and blame pony for the crook in their neck even though it’s totally not his fault. on the other hand, if their dad finds them they’d surely get the lecture of a life time and would never hear the end of it.

yeah, pony thinks with a shudder. his dad finding them would definitely be worse. pony shakily gets to his feet and walks closer to the figure. he’s only about three feet away when he sees the pool of blood and the mop of brown hair. his stomach drops before his brain remembers neither of his brothers have brown hair.

it’s only then that it occurs to pony that they aren’t at the lake. it’s only then that ponyboy is brought back to the present. that he realizes he doesn’t have to worry about his mama worrying or his dad coming to look for them. (they’re never going to worry or look for him again and, god, pony has yet to accept that, but he can’t wait for the day it hurts less to remember it.)

and it is then, when ponyboy is staring hard at the brown hair and the pool of blood, that he remembers where he is. he’s at the park. because darry hit him and he- oh god, he came here with johnny, where’s johnny?

pony whips around, his heart once again dropping. but johnny's still alive. shaking and wiping his blade on the grass, but alive. that’s good, pony doesn’t think he’d be able to make it up back home with his sanity in tact if that was johnny bleeding out.

ponyboy is so in his thoughts he can hardly hear johnny speaking, “i killed him. i killed that boy.”

pony can’t bring himself to look at johnny for too long, out of fear that his mind will start to replace the body with johnny. but yeah. he's right, johnny did kill him. pony can’t really recall his biology class real well right now, but he can remember something about how the human body can only lose so much blood and that boy has definitely lost it.

darry’s gonna be so mad at pony for getting caught up in a murder case. thats if he’s not mad at pony for getting nearly killed himself. his stomachs twists at the thought.

glory.

ponyboy almost died tonight. he knew it was always a possibility, he wasn’t going to live forever. but god. those socs really wanted to take his life tonight and for what? talking to a girl? he’s not soda, it’s not like pony ever even had a shot at cherry, even if he wanted one (and he did kind of, but not if it risked his life).

pony was shivering something fierce when be finally looked away from bob. “johnny, i think im gonna be sick.”

he barely hears johnny giving him the go ahead as he does his best not to vomit all over bob. he never liked bob but pony can at least show him a little respect since it’s his fault the kid's dead.

[fishing-lesbian-catgirl]

The internet is a beautiful place. I can search for something so absurdly specific and tailored to my interests and still be able to find something about it I disagree with that makes the whole thing less meaningful to me.

Several months ago I was able to find a whole collection of slutty transfem lesbian Asbestos fanfiction, only to get part way through and think “hey wait she would not get bottom surgery” and find the rest of the works in the collection less enjoyable because of it

[caterpillarinacave]

It’s just me and this unfinished fanfiction (that I’ll never post) and that unfinished fanfiction (that I’ll never post) and also that unfinished fanfiction (that I’ll never post) and also this unfinished fanfiction (that I’ll never post) and this other unfinished fanfiction (that I’ll never post) then this last unfinished fanfiction (that I’ll also never post), against the world, baby!

[very-gay-poet]

I don’t like the idea of Voldemort not being able to experience love because his birth wasn’t from a product of love [because what does that say to children of victims, children who doesn't know one of their parents because they left for whatever reason, children of divorced parents, or children of parents who were never together/married/had broken up], so what if he WAS able to feel love [all kinds] and had connection with other people, and did for a while, had a girlfriend and everything, top grades, very popular, and was on his way to becoming THE wizard of the time. That’s why no one expects Tom Riddle to be Voldemort, the perfect cover up.

But he CHOSE to be a bigot, he CHOSE to be hateful and go on his path of darkness, he chose to do everything he did. And it’s a choice anyone can make, that’s what's wrong with him; it wasn’t his tragic backstory, it wasn’t him being bullied, it wasn’t him being put into a certain house, he isn’t a product of his time, he could’ve easily not have chosen this path, but he did, and anyone can, that’s the point of his character, he is a representation of everything you could be, he exists as a reminder of what could happen if you don’t correct certain behavior or educate young children, if you refuse to acknowledge that your opinions come from questionable sources, if you refuse to educate yourself in certain areas of media and spread misinformation, or worse, purposefully spread misinformation with full knowledge that it could lead to social stigma, or blatant discrimination. 

The worst villains are the ones you could easily become.

[internetminestrone]

The 27th

A/N - I used to write all the time but I never posted. Now I also never write lol. So this is a cute snapshot piece to encourage me to do more of both.

Here’s to the great tumblr writers for the inspiration to imagine and share a “Henry” of my very own. @ellethespaceunicorn @littlefreya @sillyrabbit81 @shellyshellshell @peyton-warren and so many more. If you’re a Henry girlie like me or just a fun-fanfic girlie (also like me), read, comment on, and reblog everything they’ve got :)

Summary - You [Rose] have had a day and he [Henry] is there.

Word Count - 1550ish

Warnings - Fluff. Workaholic-ing.

“Oh for heaven’s sake”. As if the day couldn’t get any better, the second you stepped out of your car - a car which you had spent the last hour inside thanks to stand-still traffic - the sky opened up, and released the nasty kind of rain that only happened during a summer storm.

Conveniently - in your hurry to escape the office, you had forgotten your umbrella, and of course, the parking space right in front of your townhouse had been taken, so you had to park six houses down. Fantastic.

Clutching your bag close to your body with one hand, and the other shielding your eyes from the rain, you made a mad dash towards your front door. It was lucky, really, that you made it there, and up the steps without incident. But, standing there realizing you’d left your keys in your car was the last straw.

You began to laugh. Mouth open wide, eyes shut tight, laughing harder than you had in a long time. Because, really, who the hell cares and also - you’ve had a hell of a day. Nobody could see you, standing out here looking utterly maniacal. It had been a day that’s for sure, and now, this was as low as you could get.

“Rose, honey?”

You nearly jumped out of your skin at the sound of the door opening, and there, his large frame, cloaked by the light of your living room, was your boyfriend, looking positively bewildered at the scene - as he should be, you did look unhinged at best - but also …

“Henry?” Your brow furrowed, “What are you doing here?” 

“What am I doing here?” he cocked an eyebrow at you and his hazel eyes flashed wide. “Hon, I got here at six.”

Six? Got here at six, why on earth would he have - oh. Shoot. Shoot. “It’s the 27th?!” Your face tightened and you brought your palm to your forehead as the realization struck you like a load of bricks to the face.

“I know, I know. I texted you around lunch to remind you.” He said his shoulders lifted lightly into a casual shrug. He must’ve been reading, he still had his glasses on. Here he had been, reading and waiting up for you. How horrible!

“My phone died after my 10am meeting, and my charger decided today was the day to crap out on me.” You said, with enthusiastic gestures of your hands. “I mean, seriously, and then it was just back to back all day and then I was trying to leave but Sandra needed help on the Phillips-Miller account, and I had to track this thing down for Doug, and well. Now, it’s- what time is it?”

“8:45” Henry replied, relaxing against the doorframe as he held the door ajar. 

“8:45. Well, really 7:30 but then there was all this traffic because of the work they’re doing on the North side which I forgot about. And then I get here, and it’s suddenly raining-”

“And it’s still raining, so why don’t we come inside.” 

“- It’s raining and my umbrella, I can just picture it in the office right next to the coat hook,” You said, turning to point back towards your car briefly and then was back to him, “and my parking spot was taken so I had to park way down there and I-”

“Hey Rose?”

You took a big gulp of air, mid sentence as you continued, “- I just had to run over here to try not to get so wet, and then I get here , and my keys are just-”

Then his warm hands were clasping yours and slowly, yet forcibly, pulling you into the warmth and bright hospitable light of your home. You were silenced - stunned to silence rather. He pulled you into his chest, to get you clear of the swing of the door as he closed it behind you.

The soft cotton of his shirt felt heavenly against your face, even if just for a second before he pivoted you again, towards the easy chair in the corner and sat you down - taking your bag from you and placing it carefully on the floor, then removing your glasses and putting them on the table besides you, before gently getting on his knees and reaching for your drenched shoes, sliding them off one after the other.

“I’m sorry” You whispered quietly through chattering teeth, the dampness of the rain had chilled you to the core, the feeling crept from your soaked hair down your spine. 

“For what?” Henry asked, standing to nab a blanket out of the basket near the windows. 

“For -'' You paused, considering. “I could’ve asked someone for a charger.” You finally replied, watching him select the warmest blanket of the bunch and step back towards you.  

“I could’ve called your work number.” He said, bundling you up tight with a smile. “But I didn’t.” He stood and crossed over behind the couch into the kitchen. “Rosehip or Chamomile?”

“Yeah, you could've.” You rolled your eyes. “But why would you have?! You never call my work phone.”

“But if I really needed to get a hold of you I could’ve. Rosehip or Chamomile?” He grabbed two mugs and the electric kettle from the cabinet by the fridge; set the mugs down and walked to the sink to fill the kettle up.

“Then you should’ve!”

“But I didn’t. Rose, pay attention here, what kind of tea would you like?” He said holding up the two options so that you could see, weighing them back and forth in his hands.

“You should’ve.” You said slumping in your chair. “Seriously.”

“Okay,” He said, rolling his eyes, “We’ll have chamomile, my second favorite. And seriously, it’s not that big of a deal.” Henry put the carton of Rosehip tea away, plucked out two Chamomile tea bags from the box, placing one in each mug.

“But you should’ve called my work phone!” You grumbled, loudly in his direction.

“Rose.” His voice was calm, yet firm. “I could’ve done that. I didn’t. Me not doing that isn’t something you are now responsible for.”

You pulled the blanket tighter and brought your feet up on the chair. Sometimes bad days only get worse. You let your head fall into your blanketed knees in front of you. “I feel terrible, I ruined your day. Maybe even your -.”

“You didn’t ruin my day.” he said, clicking on the kettle and walking back over to you. “When I got here and saw you were still at work, I called it off. We were going to be early anyway, so there was plenty of time to let them know, and also it really wasn’t that big of a deal.” He sat in the chair next to you, and carefully reached across to tug your feet into his lap. “So I came in and decided to stay awhile. If you weren’t home by 9:30 I was going to drive up and get you.” The feeling of his hands on your feet, your sore and frozen feet, felt like magic.

“Now you really didn’t need to think about doing that '' You mumbled, feeling little bits of your stress melt away as his thumbs kneaded into the ball of your left foot.

“I hate it when you drive home so late. Ugh, it makes me nervous.” Henry said shuttering. He put your left foot down carefully in his lap, and picked up your right.

“Nothing would’ve happened! Nothing ever happens, I’m a good driver and I always have Stan to walk me to my car if I need to.” You protested, toes folding as Henry skimmed a ticklish spot in the crevice next to your big toe.

“Not yet it hasn’t. I’ve got the time, I can drive you when it gets late, that way you can rest on the way home.”

“Nothing-” You began, the pitch of your voice rose indignantly.

“No no no. We’re not playing this game again. Case and point. It’s not even 9:15 and you’re exhausted.”

You meant to say “no I’m not”, but instead you let out a massive and loud yawn, and your eyes fluttered, suddenly feeling heavy. You re-adjusted the blanket around you again, pulling it practically up to your nose. Henry chuckled. “Yeah. Exactly.”

He moved your feet out of the way as he stood, extending his arms out straight above his head, and tilting side to side to crack his back. Then he walked over towards the whistling kettle, and said, “Why don’t you get those wet clothes off and hop in the shower while I heat up something to eat.”

“You don’t have to do that.” You replied somberly.

“I want to.” he said, then eyes sparkling, he added, “You’re making me cold, looking at you all bundled up over there with your wet clothes and wet hair and wet socks.”

“okay” You groaned, getting to your feet. He was right of course. You were positively soaked, and the blanket was nice, but also like putting scotch tape on the Hoover Dam. Not entirely helpful.

You slid your feet one at a time, across the hardwood floor and into the kitchen where Henry waited for you with your warm mug of Chamomile tea. “Take this with you” he said, depositing the deliciously hot cup in your hands. “It will heat you up while you get the shower running.”

“Can’t I take you with me?” you said cheekily, fighting a grin. “To heat me up even when the shower’s running?”

Henry’s mouth fell open in mock surprise and chuckled, then took a few fast steps towards you, prompting you to skitter away towards the stairs giggling all the way. “Don’t tempt me with a good time baby.” he called after you, all smiles. 

[birthdayboy-ilu]

big brother cloud strife 🗣️📢🔊🔊🔊🔊

[holymarymotherofsmut]

a small thing that drives me bonkers is that people seem to think that ryomen is sukuna’s first name.

it’s not.

if we were writing his name out in the western FirstName LastName format, he would be Sukuna Ryomen.

so he would not become ryomen itadori if he was actually yuji’s brother. he would be sukuna itadori.

this has been a psa